


Sparks

by Eli314 (recycledtrashboysith)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Draco takes accountability for his actions, Fluff and Angst, Good Draco Malfoy, HP: EWE, M/M, Multi, Pain, Psychological Trauma, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:58:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recycledtrashboysith/pseuds/Eli314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco grapples every day with what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts. His dreams are populated by memories of death and torture. Maybe returning to Hogwarts will help him. Hopefully, it'll help other people, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Draco sat down to write, rubbing his brow roughly with the back of his hand, his quill shaking with his frustration. The lives of the children he wrote about tempting him to complicate things, perhaps raise the reading level with issues approaching his own. Distractions held him captive, muddling the mysterious lives of the characters in his mind beyond his intentions.

After the war, the young Malfoy had shut himself off in the Malfoy Manor. His shame and exceeding fear at having been on the losing side had crushed him. His forced obedience to Voldemort had made him infamous, with no help from the Dark Mark he attempted to hide as much as possible. Voldemort’s reign in his own home had held the family hostage, Narcissa living each day in fear and Lucius immersing himself far into his Death Eater role in order to avoid the Dark Lord punishing his family. Draco had felt superior to others, being spoiled as a child, until He had come back. Voldemort made plans for him; being the son of his favorite servant and a student at Hogwarts made him useful. Draco could never forget being alone with the Dark Lord as he expressed to the boy what would be expected of him. Being alone in the same room as the Dark Lord had drawn all energy from him, a feeling Draco remembered from earlier. Draco smirked at the memory, his superiority complex had _definitely_ been stamped out by that experience.

Returning to Hogwarts for school was a welcome vacation from the torture that was being in his own home, but knowing what was happening to his parents and in his home left a weight on his shoulders, no matter how far from it he was. When the war had ended with the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort had died, that weight had lifted, something like a curse was stripped away, leaving the young Malfoy gasping for air, his lungs filling more than they had for years.

The days soon after the Battle were some of the hardest in his life. The moment he walked away from Hogwarts with his parents were his greatest shame. It was quickly overcome by the swift mayhem Aurors made of his life, searching for him and his parents, taking them all. Draco hadn’t read the papers while they hid from justice. He merely waited.

Later, after all had been said and done, Draco’s weary mind found a small amount of refuge in the study of his painfully empty home. When he dipped his quill in ink and began writing, his pain lifted. He now spent most hours of his days writing, struggling to spend as little time remembering the pain, but also its absence. His books were a hit with young wizards and witches in the UK. He had written under the pen name of Regulus Scorpius, in a setting so alike to the school that Hogwarts students began seeking the hidden places he wrote about.

As Draco continued writing he felt his eyes droop. _I must finish this chapter. Just this chapter, Draco. One more page. Reginald must make it and free his sister from Elret’s curse, dammit. Before I lose it. But the snake is coming. The snake is coming. I can’t let the snake make it to Mother. Father! Don’t let him…_ Draco’s body jerked and his eyes shot open. He lifted his shaking hand to smooth is hair out of his face.

Just as he put his quill back to the parchment, an owl flew in the window and flung a small letter at him. He reached up quickly and failed to catch it as it hit him in the nose. _McGonagall._ Her owl, a testy little one, had always seemed to prefer making deliveries more like punishments. He glared at the small creature and read the letter.   

           

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_I would like to offer you the opportunity to coach the Quidditch teams at Hogwarts. Send Midge back with your response. If you’d like to discuss this further, I will be in my office all day tomorrow. Feel free to take the Floo over at any time._

_Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

Draco read the letter a few more times. In his youth, he would have scoffed at the job. His father would have been immensely disappointed. His mother would think he had potential for more. _No matter,_ Draco thought. He had always admired Madam Hooch and appreciated her guidance. Draco fondly remembered pretending to have detention in order to visit her and ask her advice. At the time he felt he had no choice but be the person his father and his peers expected him to be, but he never forgot the peace he felt at Hogwarts and the influence of his own coach. Draco became lost in his thoughts until Midge began pecking at his hand and flapping her wings at him in irritation.

“ _Fine,_ _Midge._ Give me a moment,” Draco sighed as he pulled a fresh piece of parchment out and wrote that he would be in her office tomorrow at 2pm. It was already 3am, and he planned on sleeping as much as he could before seeing McGonagall again.

\----

Draco’s eyes shot open as he woke up in his four-poster bed, sweat soaking his sheets and chilling him to the core. It was still dark out when he sat up in bed and wiped the sweat from his brow with a groan. Peeling the sheets off him, he shivered and began undressing the bed. He gave the house elves freedom after the war, but most stayed. The Manor was huge and they maintained it at their own pace, which is to say nearly the same pace as they had before. He threw the soaked sheets into a laundry bag and placed them outside his door for Micky, the only elf Draco knew of that had taken his freedom to demand keeping his job and proceed to outline his conditions. He felt his head begin to ache as he grabbed a large blanket and settled into an armchair before the fire.

Draco was once again pulled from his sleep around noon, the sun’s rays felt like daggers in his eyes as he pulled his body out of the armchair. Aches emanated from his legs after being twisted under him for the last several hours, a welcome trade for a clearer head. He put on his formal robes, clean but unmoved for several months, and prepared to leave for Hogwarts. _What am I doing, going back there?_ Draco shook his head, fighting the thoughts for quiet. At the very least, he would like to see McGonagall again. She had always been nicer to him than he deserved. He stood in front of the fire, pacing at 1:30pm. He always had to get ready too early, then knowing that the Floo would take a second, he had to sit, stand, and pace around the fireplace, wearing holes in the rug with his anxiety. As soon at 1:50pm came around, he stepped into the fireplace. _Ten minutes early is fine. It’s perfectly reasonable. Better early than late. Unless she is busy._ He forced himself to throw the Floo powder down with one last pang of anxiety, “Hogwarts Headmistress’ Office.”

Draco never cared for using Floo powder. Gave him a tickle in the back of his throat every time. Stepping out of the fireplace, Draco was greeted with vibrant decorations and the smell of _home._ Hogwarts was the last place he felt comfortable, and the feeling overwhelmed him as he stepped forward. The Hogwarts grounds had been healed over the years, quickly at first, to reopen for school, and then slowly, as the less-traveled parts of the school were rebuilt with more thought to new uses. New aims to create bonds between the Houses were instituted after Slytherin become hated for the loyalty exhibited, largely to their parents, during the war. He had even heard that there was a new common room open to all houses that was made specifically for those who were muggle-born, their friends, and other curious students, to use their computers and other increasingly efficient muggle technology. Draco had felt some amount of disgust when he first heard, but he had been working hard to overcome these feelings and soon found himself reading all there was about how muggle internet had come to be. He admitted that their use of electricity in creating radio waves for their own uses was rather genius. The school was evolving into something new, something better than he would have ever expected.

“Hello Mr. Malfoy!” McGonagall called from her desk. She had clearly been clearing up her desk as he arrived. Walking over, she grasped one of his hands as her expression saddened, “I hope you have been well.”

Draco looked at the floor, knowing well that he did not look particularly healthy. Staying up most nights to write and sleeping fitfully, his pale skin highlighted the dark circles under his eyes and the weariness in his expression. “I have been well, Professor—er, Headmistress.”

“Well, let’s get to it, shall we?” The emotion left her face as soon as it had come as she smiled lightly, motioning for him to sit. “First, you may call me Minerva. But more importantly, times have changed around Hogwarts. Many of the old professors have left. Madam Hooch recently expressed interest in leaving. I remember your skill on a broom, and given your more recent work, the children will love you.”

“Children?”

“Well, yes. They may not know that you are their favorite author,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “but that does not mean that what you put into those books will not shine through. Of course, if you decide upon coaching the Quidditch team, you will also be teaching the first-year flying lessons. You may find your students remind you of your own time here.”

“Professor—Minerva, I have kept to myself for good reason. I could have the best intentions and these students’ parents, and some themselves, would still recognize me as a Malfoy, and one who stood with You-Know-Who.”

“Draco, if I learned anything from Dumbledore, it was that teaching the students was more important than public opinion. Remus was a werewolf and taught one of the best Defense classes I’d seen in a long time. If you wish not to teach, that is unfortunate. But I see how you’ve changed. If you fear the opinions of the parents and some students, then I will be greatly disappointed, but I cannot change your mind.”

Draco sat for a moment, his options laid in front of him. Neither were ideal. He could return to the Manor and finish his book alone. Yes, he would avoid the glares of others, leaving with a glamour to grab a pint in London every once in a while, but only having meaningful discussion with his publisher and his mother. Draco grimaced at the thought.

“Yeah,” Draco shook his head, “I’ll come.”

Minerva smiled, “I assure you, I have not invited you here without thinking of the consequences. We will handle problems as they come. 

\----

Draco fell into the closest armchair when he returned to the Manor, throwing his shoes and robes in the chair opposite him and pulling his legs up over the arm like he did as a child. It was only a month until classes started, he would have to be on the grounds in two weeks. He suddenly felt the rush of his mental to-do list populate. He could try and finish the last book he was working on, but he also felt the need to practice his flying. It would come back to him quickly, he thought, but there was no doubt that he would be rusty. He fidgeted in his seat.

_What if I fall off? What if I let a student fall off? Then they’d really sack me._

Draco pulled himself out of his chair reluctantly, collected his clothes, and decided to put forth some effort. His characters were evading him at the moment, so writing was out of the question. The patter of rain on the windows lead him to think about his broom, waiting to be ridden for the last few years. He always liked flying in the rain, it chilled him to the bone and made him feel as much alive as he ever had. As soon as the thought popped into his head, he was descending the stairs and making his way to the garden house. As soon as he opened the door, he felt nearly giddy. Draco rarely explored his old home as he did when he was a child. It had become the Death Eater Headquarters, not only in use, but also in essence. Every room had felt tainted after the war, images of torture and death populating most rooms. He certainly walked the property to clear his head, but the garden house had only been maintained by the elves since. His new sense purpose was refreshing, and nearly cleansed his path of the memories.

It felt remarkably clean to Draco, as he reached for his broom only to have it complete the distance. The wood still maintained its finish, but time had roughened it somewhat, leaving a broom with more “character” than he would’ve accepted in his youth. This time, he felt equal with the broom, his own edges rough, solidifying his bond with it as he prepared to leave the ground. With just the thought, the neglected broom began soaring into the sky, leaving Draco more than a little dazed, but holding on as the broom fulfilled every suggestion his body made. In a short moment, he felt himself settle in, adjusting his grip and leaning forward to really see what he could do. Draco laughed and maneuvered across the gardens, shooting between trees and startling the birds. Rain pelted his face and soaked into his robes, the sharp cold heightening his senses and giving him a rush he hadn’t felt in years.

As Draco dismounted, sufficiently freezing and hungry, he realized that he really _did_ need to get out more. His elation disarmed him. He had forgotten what it felt like.

\----

The next two weeks went by quickly. His publisher supported his lifestyle change, touting it as wise for “the long term.” He read those words more than a few times, trying to figure out what she was insinuating. He put the book aside and started thinking logistically. His books and wardrobe were really all that he needed, and there were few things in the Manor that he found worth the space. He assured himself many times that this would be a new page in his book, but the idea of interacting with students and his fellow professors wasn’t yet something he could imagine. He wrote a letter to his mother to which she responded with a vigorously negative attitude. _Those people will never look at you the same way. You’ll always be the enemy to them. Please, don’t put yourself on display like this._ Her words repeated in his head for days after he received them, but then Draco realized something. He didn’t have anything else. There were no failures anymore. He was finished anyway. All he could do was try, and if the worst happened, he could return to his fortress and brood. Permanently. He packed a few Quidditch coaching books for good measure.

 _Apparently, all of my foolish hopes were_ not _destroyed in that place._ Draco shook his head. He was going to return to the last place he felt safe, and the last place he felt the worst.

\---- 

Unsurprisingly, his chambers were fantastic. He had always wondered what the staff quarters were like, and he was not disappointed. The size of a reasonable apartment with a full bathroom, it had a clawfoot tub and a beautiful fireplace. Clearly, Minerva believed in the abilities he learned in her class, because there were several blocks of wood sitting in the room, ready to be transfigured into furniture of his choosing. A note attached read: _Usually, you would inherit the last professor’s furniture, but I thought a challenge would be welcome. –M_

Draco’s mouth cracked into a smile and he shook his head. _She’ll be the death of me._ She clearly wanted him to brush up on his magic before classes began again, but Draco knew that once he learned something, he never forgot it. It was a near-obsession with knowledge that he had as a child and helped him greatly once he got to Hogwarts. His bored moments were filled by naming potions ingredients and trying to remember each of their applications.

Draco saw the first, large block and pulled it where he imagined a bed going, transfiguring it into a king-sized four-poster bed, carved ridges spiraling up the posters and large clawed feet. He found the sheets folded in the cabinet, beautiful yellow cotton sheets with a fluffy comforter covered in badger silhouettes. The Hufflepuff sheets were gorgeous, but Draco knew that they would be much more beautiful in emerald green with the silhouettes of snakes.

As the sheets wrapped themselves around his mattress, he felt a pang of hunger developing. By the time he had taken the remaining blocks of wood and transfigured them into a matching wardrobe, couple of chairs by the fireplace, and desk in the corner, he was nearly exhausted and hungry enough to eat a dragon. His chambers locked themselves up behind him as he left, and he went in search of food. Staff dinner had ended long before he left his chambers, so he went in search of the kitchens. Making his way down the dimly lit halls of Hogwarts past dusk would’ve been a meditative experience had he not felt weak in the knees, and the experience certainly wasn’t aided by Neville Longbottom’s alarmingly attractive face glowering at him as he rounded the bottom of the main staircase.

Neville had _grown up_. He had grown taller than Draco when they were younger, but his height was no longer a hindrance. It now united with his newly found cheekbones and prominent jawline. It could have been a pleasant surprise if the Gryffindor didn’t look like he was about to hex Draco into the next life.

“Malfoy? How dare you come back here?” Neville’s question dripped with all the anger in Neville, no longer dampened by fear.

“I was asked to coach the Quidditch team, teach the first-years. Nothing too special, I assure you.” Draco spit the words out. He wasn’t in the mood for this. His stomach flipped a few times, the emptiness suddenly making him queasy. “What are you doing here?”

Neville nearly scoffed, “I teach herbology, but who in their right mind would let you near first-years? It’s been so quiet since your lot have gone and buggered off. These kids don’t fear the world anymore. The Slytherin house is just barely beginning gain respect again. Is it all too shocking for you? Need to bring it back to the old glory?”

“Absolutely not, Longbottom. I let go of all that a long time ago. I paid for my crimes. I accepted my mistakes for what they were.” Draco felt old anger bubble to the surface, his pulse quickened.

“Well, Malfoy, I don’t believe you. I know you _paid,_ but was it enough? You didn’t see what the rest of us were left with when you _ran away._ We carried our dead. We had to tell the families of _children_ that they died fighting _you. Your people. Your family.”_

“Neville, please. It’s all changed. I’ve changed.”

“You don’t just change. Not after something like that.” Neville shook his head and made long strides up the staircase. _Bloody fucking hell. I can’t do this._ As Neville went out of sight, Draco felt the sense of dread descend from his head into his every nerve, drawing tight as bow strings, and then they snapped. The floor seemed to be so far away as his lungs heaved to catch a breath and his knees fell out from under him.


	2. Chapter 2

Shame laid an extra layer to his panic and he forced himself to climb the stairs. Draco hated panic attacks. The first one happened in the girls’ washroom at Hogwarts after Katie Bell recovered from the cursed opal necklace—his fear of being caught and news of his failure returning to Voldemort overpowered each of his senses. Draco pulled himself up the stairs. He was  _ so bloody hungry _ . He sat down at the top of the steps and held his head in his hands. This was more than he bargained for. Neville Longbottom was the last person he expected to see today, or any day really. 

When he had composed himself mentally and physically, he started down again. He tickled the same pear that had been there in his first year and walked in. The kitchens were huge; some walls had been repaired—nearly exactly the same as they had been before the battle. Brass and copper pots littered the walls, and all the elves froze as he walked in. 

“May we help Mister Malfoy?” One small elf asked, slowly walking towards him.  _ Shit, even the elves remember me.  _

“Yes, I would love something to eat. I missed the staff meal and I’m starving.”

“Of course,” the elf replied tersely, his eyes at the floor.

Draco waiting only a moment before he was lead to a small table and a plate full of food was presented in front of him. It was amazing. The best food is always food eaten on an empty stomach. He tried to eat quickly, getting out of the room and away from the heavy glances. As soon as he was done, he looked up. 

“Thank you, really,” Draco half-smiled before walking out of the kitchens. So far, it seemed that all of his interactions would be chiefly strained. He hoped he would grow on the other inhabitants of Hogwarts, before he lost his positivity.

It had gotten particularly late by the time he left the kitchens. This time, he would wander for a while. Everyone would be asleep or in their chambers by now, or should be. Draco took the main staircase up and walked until he found a long hall of portraits. He walked through, casting a condensed  _ Lumos _ ahead of him. Waking all the portraits in his path would  _ not  _ be endearing on his first night. 

As he walked, he heard a hushed whisper, again and again. It called him over to the end of the hall and to a wall of newly installed portraits, mostly of the staff and students lost in the Battle of Hogwarts. The first was a brilliantly accurate portrait of Albus Dumbledore, looking quite severe. 

“Draco,” the portrait whispered. Draco was taken aback. He had made all efforts not to wake any portraits. Anyone he could wake wouldn’t be worse than Dumbledore. Draco’s memory flashed through the times he tried to kill the previous Headmaster. 

“Headmaster, I’m sorry for waking you.” Draco made no extraordinary efforts at politeness with Dumbledore. He had always appreciated frankness in life, but he also was never partial to Draco; that certainly wouldn’t change now. 

“Oh, no matter. Portraits don’t need to sleep, necessarily. I was up with my thoughts already. I’m pleased to see you have returned.”

“Really? Headmaster, I would expect you would be least pleased.”

“Oh, Draco. Don’t think too highly of yourself now. Minerva spoke to me at length about offering you a position here.”

“Well,” Draco paused. He supposed his sense of self-importance had grown over his time alone, but he knew he wasn’t exactly  _ liked. _ “Well, I’m confused now. I know I wasn’t the most important in the war, of course. But you wanted me to come back?”

“Of course, Draco. Goodness. I knew the good in you as soon as I met you. You were a troublesome child, even infuriating at times, but I knew.” The portrait of Dumbledore paused, rubbing his chin. “Severus cared deeply for you, told me of how your parents spoiled you. It wasn’t fair to you, raising you that way. But when the tides turned, I knew you would be challenged beyond measure. They didn’t prepare you for any of that. The order to kill me was as much a death sentence for you as it intended to be for me, Draco.”

Draco nodded. He had known some of this already, but some of it came as a shock—someone wanted to give him a second chance. And it was the portrait of a man he once tried to kill, several times. The world was a strange place.

“Thank you, for that. I never knew anyone saw anything in me, other than being part of the next generation of Death Eaters.”

The portrait of Dumbledore got out of his chair and moved behind it, “There will always be hope, as I told Harry many times when he was young. There are many who do think you are still dangerous, but there are also many who saw a scared boy who only returned to Voldemort’s side because of your loyalty. And some in the middle know that people who really wish to change are capable of it.” Dumbledore’s expressions lightened, “You’d be amazed how much you hear, being on the wall. Eventually, if you are quiet, people forget you are there.”

Draco smirked, “I’ll certainly never forget you after this conversation.”

“Have a good night, Draco.”

He walked away slightly dumbfounded. He just couldn’t get over the portrait of Albus Dumbledore welcoming him back to Hogwarts, in the middle of the night.  _ I think that’s enough of a walk for one night. _ Draco hopped down the stairs back to his chambers, taking care not to fall down a flight. 

When he finally reached his bed, he pulled off his trousers and yanked off his shirt, his pale, scarred skin tightening with goosebumps at the cool air. He lounged, exhausted, over his sheets and felt himself sink. The exhaustion of his earlier work combined with a panic attack, all before dinner, finally hit him like a train. All he had the energy to do was pull the top of his sheets down over him before he fell asleep.

\----

The next few days went fairly well. He still hadn’t developed the courage to show his face at the staff dinner. It may have been informal, but he didn’t even want to sit for the total 5 minutes it took to throw back a meal. He had run into McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, who regarded him with a cool politeness. The elves in the kitchens had barely begun warming up to him, or rather just stopped regarding him as a threat, which was a pleasant surprise. All in all, he found that his situation with the elves was overall better than with his fellow Hogwarts staff. He still wandered around the school in the evenings, clearing his head with the surroundings of his childhood—before it all went south.

Today, the grounds seemed like a more optimistic location. He only had four days until the students would come to campus, and he had been reading  _ Defensive Drills and Tactics  _ and  _ Quidditch: 120 Exercises for Young Athletes  _ until the words had started blurring across the page. When McGonagall asked why he hadn’t been coming to the “relaxed staff dinner,” he told her that he was up to his nose in books, getting ready for the students to return. Not a lie, per say. He knew that most of the professors would be the same, which didn’t imbue him with optimism, and there would be several new replacements, surprises were even less inspiring. 

Draco wandered the grounds, coming to a safe distance from the Whomping Willow and beginning to appreciate its calm nature when unprovoked. He eventually walking back over the grounds to a courtyard, down to the place where Hermione had punched him in the face not too many years ago.  _ God, I was such a prick.  _ Draco shook his head; there was no time to think about that now. He hadn’t seen the golden trio in years, and he hoped he wouldn’t see them again for many more.  _ I may feel sorry for the past, but I still don’t like those pretentious…  _ Draco was startled out of his thoughts by a flash of cold by his side, and the pale blue translucence of a ghost wafting past him. He hadn’t recognized the tall and slim figure until it turned around. 

Draco’s jaw dropped and the color ran out of his face, “Fred Weasley?”

The figure started laughing, “Draco MALFOY? Oh, shit. You’re the last person I would’ve expected on this fine day.”

Draco was confused, and apparently his face showed it.

“Malfoy, it’s alright. I’ve found that my positive glow usually confuses people.” The man waved his arms around him, gesturing to his smile and floating legs. “Most ghosts are a tinsy bit bitter, and of course I am, but why spend eternity all gloomy? I died in a historical battle, and there are quite a few gorgeous ghosts around here. I, personally, love the idea of hanging out with the same people I went to school with forever.”

Draco stood there with his mouth open, not entirely sure what to say. 

“I honestly never dreamed I would see the stunning and put together Draco Malfoy displaying himself like a gaping mouthbreather,” Fred commented, clearly set on having a conversation.

Draco’s teeth clicked together as he jerked his mouth closed, “You’re right. I’m not sure what to say.”

“Bloody hell, you need to get it together. You’re here; figure it out. Have you been brooding like this since you got here?” 

Draco felt a smile develop on his face, “Well, I suppose so. I’ve been here over a week and I’ve been eating in the kitchens with the elves.”

“You’re worse than Harry ever was, moping around like that,” Fred’s eyes rolled.

“I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. Can’t deny that,” Draco laughed. 

“Well, I hope you get it together. You’ll have to look strong in front of the students, but not like a dickwad. It’s a fine line, Malfoy.”

“I’ll try to walk it. I’ve always been comfortable with the dickwad side of things. A superiority complex does loads to remedy the shame of being an arsehole.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Fred’s quiet laugh was quickly replaces by a serious tone as he looked at the ground.

“Yeah, I s’pose I would.”

Draco and Fred were still for a moment, both looking at the ground, absorbed in their own thoughts.

“Can I ask you a question?” Fred looked up at Draco with grave eyes.

“Sure.”

“Why did you run? After the battle, my ghostly nature had hardly started taking shape, but I saw you. I saw your family at the bridge.”

Draco’s eyes widened. He shifted his weight to both legs, adopting an air of dignity to offset the dignity he was about to lose.  _ Why lie now? It’s supposed to be different this time.  _

“My father knew he would go to Azkaban. He knew that all of us would. He was so scared of Voldemort. And when he died, we all felt so much better, like each of our bodies had been surrounded by this immense pressure that just… lifted. Just like that. It was remarkable. We knew the worst was over, but my father had been to Azkaban before. He told us these vague stories about how he felt he would have been better off dead, like the Dementors had ripped out his heart.” Draco’s face twisted as he held back each horrible emotion he had done his best to push out since then. “Anyway, he didn’t want my mother and me to go there. He wanted us to be safe. I hid with them, but I didn’t really want to. I wanted my fate to be over. Honestly, I wanted to die. I don’t think I spoke for about two months, hiding. I wanted them to rip out my heart.”

Fred stared at Draco. He was pretty sure no one had ever seen this much emotion come out of a Malfoy. 

“Fuck,” Fred whispered. 

Draco composed himself and smiled, “Yeah, what were you saying about brooding, again?”

Fred clearly wasn’t ready to lighten the mood. “Draco, I died fighting your people, and I was angry about it for a long time. I thought you were a coward. I hated you, and your family. But being a ghost means you have a lot of time to reconcile your feelings. I can understand how the positions and beliefs of your parents could make you into something you’re not. I was lucky enough to have a family who loved me and brought me up right. You didn’t. That doesn’t mean that I forgive your sorry ass for being such a prick to my brothers, especially Ron. But you’re not all bad. You don’t have to live life like you owe everyone around you. The shit that I’ve obsessed over and gotten through, just being a ghost—I can’t image the shit that you get through, being in Azkaban with your thoughts for two years.”

Draco stiffened, the words were kind, but the mention of his time in Azkaban startled him. “No one knows what it’s like in there. My father was right. All I wanted was to die.”

“But you’re out now. You’ve paid for your crimes. Now get on with it.”

“No, Fred. It doesn’t work like that. Even when I was in there, I was still afraid of getting out. I wanted to die, not get out.”

“Well, doesn’t seem like you have any choice in the matter. And you’re so fucked up, you’d probably be a ghost if you died now.”

Draco cracked a smile; “I like you better with the dark humor.”

“I’m glad someone does.”

“Do you miss your family?” Draco couldn’t look Fred in the eyes as he asked.

“Ha! No, I don’t miss my mother and father, the most amazing people I’ve ever known—my brothers, who were all exceptional people, even the prat, Percy. George doesn’t even know I’m a ghost.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I know he would be here all the time. Spending as much time with me as he could.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“Of course I want that. I want my other half back. It sounds ridiculous, but he was absolutely half of me. We knew everything that the other thought and felt. It’s fucking ridiculous. I would give anything to have that back. But I won’t let him see me like this. He would waste his life away and never get over it. And I would have to watch him get old and die. Who doesn’t fucking want that?”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” 

“I see the bitterness, now.”

“Shut up, you prick.” Fred smiled. 

“You’re not too bad, Fred.” 

“Oh, I know. You’re just now figuring out what everyone else already knew.” Draco laughed as Fred continued, “You’re not too bad yourself, Malfoy. I thought if I ever saw you again, you’d likely still be a pretentious dick. I’ve found myself pleasantly surprised.”

“Well, I’m finding myself pleasantly surprised that I’m going to miss the staff dinner again. Definitely have you to thank for that.”

“Shit. I think you really should go to that. Seriously. You don’t want to be surprised on the night that the students arrive. All the professors seem to have their hands full, so being surprised by the new faces, and really the old ones even more so, will  _ not  _ help you with the chaos.”

Draco nodded, “You’re probably right. I’ll go tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you around, Malfoy. Got plans with Peeves.”

Fred quickly floated away, and with that, Draco left for his daily visit to the Hogwarts kitchens. 

\----

Draco finished his night with a glass of fire whiskey in his chambers, charmed to be much cooler than the outside weather would suggest. It was a pleasant surprise to find common ground with someone at Hogwarts again. An honest conversation hadn’t been part of his life since Pansy had been around. He had allowed his depression to push her away after he returned from Azkaban. She had met a man in Ireland the year after the battle, a very Gryffindor-type, and changed her ways. He wasn’t ready to let go of the past yet, and so he let the friendship die when he wouldn’t come to their wedding. He felt such relief, being honest with someone for the first time in a few years—and with Fred Weasley. 

Draco sat with his glass and his thoughts until he fell asleep in the chair by his rolling August fire. _ The air was suddenly so cold; Draco shivered and rubbed his shoulders. The snow on the ground had grown a foot deep, and Hogsmeade was slowly quieting down. Draco looked out at the crowd from behind the three broomsticks. Her. _ Imperio.  _ Draco said it so quietly that he could hardly hear himself. Something in his brain was screaming. He fought it, pushed it back. The Gryffindor girl walked over to him awkwardly, like her body hadn’t quite been consumed by the spell yet. She stood in front of Draco and he handed her a package, telling her in hushed tones who she was to deliver it to and that it was absolutely necessary she be discreet, but quick. She nodded, her expression normal, but something missing in her eyes. She walked away and Draco went the other direction, staying behind the shops of Hogsmeade until he walked back into the crowd seamlessly. Their eyes. _ That one knows. She saw. _ Draco feels the hair on his arms raise, but as he turns the corner back to Hogwarts, no one follows. _ It’s ok. No one saw.  _ Draco walked back onto the grounds of Hogwarts and quickly went to the Slytherin dormitory. He found his bed and sank into it, his face contorting until he starts sobbing. Now, he’s standing in the study hall. Harry Potter is talking to her. Not her. Draco feels his stomach enter into his throat. He can’t breath as he sees Potter turn around. His eyes meet Draco’s and he knows. _ He knows.  _ Draco pulls a breath into his lungs and attempts to focus his eyes. He can’t see. He forces his body to comply as he walks to the girls’ washroom. His hands fall onto the sink and the pressure in his head explode. The tears come out of his eyes before he can stop them, his body tensely resisting falling over. Panic is radiating out of him, he’s going to throw up. The Dark Lord is going to kill his parents. He’s never going to see them again. His mother is dead. He’s almost out of chances. He hears footsteps into the room; everything goes numb. Harry Potter followed him. He starts to run when a spell rushes past him. He attempts to return, but his efforts are meaningless. He can hardly see, he’s not even sure of what is really happening.  _ SECTUMSEMPRA!  _ Draco falls to the ground, excruciating pain for only a moment, before he feels his body relax. He knows he’s bleeding, but he can’t tell where he’s hurt. Everywhere. Everything gets cooler, and it’s over. Draco knows it has to be over. There is nothing after this, and Draco feels… relief. _

Draco woke up, sweat soaking his shirt and his hands aching from being clenched. Clearly, waking some memories wasn’t best for Draco’s somewhat improving sleep. Being away from the Manor only helped so much, but talking with Fred about the past, though helpful and much needed, didn’t help so much with Draco’s unresolved guilt. Draco smirked—his subconscious really knew how to fuck him. The fire whiskey probably didn’t help much either.

Tomorrow, the students’ arrival was here.  _ Shit.  _ Draco hugged his wet pillow for a moment before deciding that wasn’t an option. Taking comfort in his bed wasn’t possible in this condition. He pulled his wand from his bedside table and cast a quick cleaning spell. It did wonders for the sheets, but the warm comfort still wouldn’t settle in. Draco sat up, stretching his arms in the air and preparing for all of the worst to come in the next couple days. If he could just get through this, then it would be all downhill from there.  He had managed to put off the staff dinner up until this point. If he didn’t do it tonight, the welcoming feast would be a total surprise, to himself and everyone else. Draco’s eyebrows went up at the thought.  _ No, not a good idea. _

As soon as Draco had showered, his clothes were on, his hair brushed into the right direction, the anxiety set in. He ran through every possible event in his mind, inevitably worst tonight due to the lack of students for which the professors scale back their personal feelings. Flitwick had been terse but accepting of him the last week, and he definitely knew how Neville felt. Hagrid would still be at Hogwarts, likely with a promotion and much more respect than those years before. No telling how he would respond. Hagrid could be angry and trepidatious, or he could be forgiving, welcoming, and the nicest man Draco would encounter. Who knows where he landed after the battle? 

Draco sat there, with his hands on his left shoe, over-thinking. His hands began to tense on the shoe strings, pulling them back out of their tie. Draco signed, pulled out of the depths of his mind. He re-tied the shoe and pulled on the other. There was no way to tell until he walked into that hall. He had hours to kill. 

**Author's Note:**

> First fan fic in 5 years! I'm aiming for a chapter a week, but there's no promises. College is hard.
> 
> While the gist is the same, this fic's details may change. As the plot thickens, it may move to "Explicit" (if I am capable of writing sex), and more pairings may come up depending on their importance.


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